


Time is only contained within cigarette smoke

by turquoise_tales



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bucky Barnes Returns, Canon Divergence - Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Eventual Smut, Kinda?, M/M, Natasha Romanov Is a Good Bro, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Sam Wilson Is a Good Bro, Semi-Public Sex, Smoking, Steve Rogers Feels, Steve Rogers Needs a Hug, Steve Rogers-centric, Steve is just sad through most of the fic, Tony Stark Has A Heart, You've been warned, i mean it's a window, oh my lord the angst, okay that's all, sad steve sad smokes his sad cigarettes, the cigarette has more character than the rest of them, there're a lot of cigarettes, time is kinda whacky
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-10
Updated: 2018-03-10
Packaged: 2019-03-29 07:18:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13922109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/turquoise_tales/pseuds/turquoise_tales
Summary: Steve thinks of it as an offering when the smoke burns his lungs three out of five drags and he suppress the need to cough the other two times. He watches the cherry red tip light up every time he inhales and he thinks of the fires that keep the dwellings of the old gods warm, he thinks of cherry red lips that could twist in certain ways and kindle flames in his heart, he thinks of the cherry red lips parting to frame around white teeth in a grin when the fireworks went off- or the explosives in the middle of snow and rattling train car-Exhale.





	Time is only contained within cigarette smoke

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [i know i've got loose ends](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9302954) by [endofadream](https://archiveofourown.org/users/endofadream/pseuds/endofadream). 



> We will not talk about my other WIPs. PMS calls for angst and smut and I answer mother nature. It's 2am and this is largely unedited. I read through once, but what do you know. 
> 
> Honestly, I read endofadream's fic and just like... How did they get smoking to be so hot like?? Smoking kills dammit! Anyway, I had to get all the sadness and frustration over how beautiful the fic was (like, it's a fucking masterpiece, I swear to god, go read it if you haven't). 
> 
> Steve is sad and dramatic. Like me. But then he gets sappy with Bucky and he's happy. Unlike me. Read the fic in black and white cause I wrote it in black and white. There is no colour in suffering. Okay, cool, enjoy.

Steve thinks of it as an offering; like the ones that his ancestors would have hoped that the old gods would accept. The old gods, larger than life, secretive, terrifying and yet riddled with human folly whispering strange lullabies into the storms that beat against walls, into the breezes that rustled through the groves, into the bleating sheep as the sun went down. Steve thinks of it as an offering everytime he curls up against the highest window of the Tower- it’s the  _ Avenger’s  _ Tower now, not just Stark’s- and taps the threadbare Lucky Strikes packet against his palm (twice like  _ he  _ used to), before pulling out a cigarette, fitting it between his lips and lighting it. It takes two tries to light it this time and he blows smoke out through the gap of the slightly open window. He still does not entirely know how to smoke.

 

Steve thinks of it as an offering when the smoke burns his lungs three out of five drags and he suppress the need to cough the other two times. He watches the cherry red tip light up every time he inhales and he thinks of the fires that keep the dwellings of the old gods warm, he thinks of cherry red lips that could twist in certain ways and kindle flames in his heart, he thinks of the cherry red lips parting to frame around white teeth in a grin when the fireworks went off- or the explosives in the middle of snow and rattling train car-   
  


_ Exhale. _

 

He watches the air skitter to accommodate the grey smoke and then he watches it swallow the traces until his vision isn’t blurred out and the city lights don’t look like the lights on cheap movie screens back when calloused hands held his in the darkness of the theatre and he could feel every scar that was etched into the rough skin just so they could splurge on the movie-  _ for Christmas, Stevie, c’mon it’ll be great. Old Bertie from two floors down said he’d even slip a ticket for free. Don’t worry about the money, pal _ \- trace every inch of those fingers so he could get them onto paper better next time. He still struggles to get it right, even with the fancy supplies of the new world. 

 

Two more drags. He taps the cigarette against the sill, watches ash float down until he can’t spot it no more and thinks of the grace that his movement had not held, thinks of the grace that it should have- it was the grace, then, that he had not managed to capture on paper. Not the proportions or the nerves and tendons and half bitten nails and scars- so many scars. It is too late now for corrections, anyway. He looks at his own smooth hands. They’d always been this way- dainty, birdlike and smooth then; big, clumsy and smooth now- unable to reach, to hold o- He decides he hates them.

 

_ Inhale. _

 

It is a secret. He wonders if it matters more than all the others he carries, only for him to know. Him, and well, Bu-  _ brown hair, blue eyes, cotton candy smile, all sugary sweet, don’t believe the trick, he’s got a bite, that Barnes boy. A charmer! What a lucky lad, that Rogers, to have him at his back-  _ Come back, he thinks and promptly dismisses the thought. All too late. This offering is a secret. The old offerings were not. But then, Steve’s god is not the same.

 

He believes it to be an offering, but it might as well be a ritual.

  
  


***

 

“Didn’t know you smoked, Cap.”

 

It is Natasha who catches him at it first. A part of him is surprised that it took her this long. Maybe, it just took her this long to approach him. He doesn’t turn away from the window.

 

“Don’t know a lot of things,” he rasps. His throat is clogged with what he insists is smoke.

 

Natasha hums, leans against the window beside him, not touching. “Don’t like it though.”

 

“Don’t like that I smoke or that you don’t know things,” it comes out more like a statement. He knows the answer but this is a challenge. She knows too.

 

They stand in silence, then, and the only movements disturbing the night are Steve’s and the wind tugging at Natasha’s hair. She does not comment when he coughs. She does not comment when he stubs the cigarette butt and drops it into his pocket. He lights another one and tells his god that this one is for her. She deserves some peace, he thinks, glancing at her, tracking her lax stance and deceptively unfocused stare directed at the twinkling horizon. Deserves the peace that he will not accept for himself. 

 

“Pretty, isn’t it?”

 

Steve makes a vague questioning sound. 

 

“The city lights, gramps. Like, fairies.”

 

Fairies.  _ Fucking fairy, spat at him like it was supposed to dig into the wounds that the knuckles and boots had littered on his body, curled over itself in an alleyway, too weak to get up again. Sounds of scuffles around him again and he knew the sound of those grunts like he knew the back of his palm, knew how the cadence differed when it was supposed to be angry, fists connecting against the bullies and he knew when it was supposed to be reverent, escaping against his sweat soaked skin at night.  _ __  
  


_ Look at us, Stevie, a coupla fairies, fucking magic like in those tales your ma used to tell ya. _ __  
__  
He clenches his fists and the cigarette bends, deadens. He does not light it again and he pretends not to notice when Natasha tenses slightly. He would not have, really, if he had not been waiting for it.

 

They don’t talk about it later, but he finds packets of vintage Luckies from the 60s and 70s in his apartment one day in an unlabelled box. They don’t talk about it even when he leaves a packet at her door. 

  
  


***

 

The old gods had sometimes given signs that they had heard the prayers, received the offerings. Steve had no hope for such trickeries. His god lived only in memories. Fading, fading, alive only till his own life ran its course. His god would die with him- at least this time it wouldn’t be his fault.

 

He had not expected his sign to be the sacrifice himself.

 

***

 

Of all people to find him by the window, Steve had not expected it to be Tony. Maybe he would have heard the frankly obnoxious footsteps if his hands had not been trembling as he tapped the cigarette packet against his palm (twice like  _ he  _ had), maybe if it had not taken three tries to pick a cigarette out because he was shaking so bad, the wheel of the lighter not completing the turn- again, again-

 

Tony steadied his hand, pressed against the wheel and held the flame against the tip of the cigarette dangling from Steve’s mouth. Steve sucked in the longest breath he could, held it.

 

“You know, Rogers, there are far better cigarettes than these now,” Tony’s voice lacked the usual brashness even in its volume. “They come in all kinds of flavours, too.”

 

_ Exhale. Smoke as black as the mask, the goggles, the vest, the weapon. You have guarded your heart, Soldier, what about your mind? _

 

“It was him,” Steve whispered. The trembling had not lessened. He took another long drag.

 

Tony was quiet for a long time. If it was any other day, Steve would have been thankful for the unusual silence around the other man.

 

“I dug up files, if you want, when you’re ready.”

 

Another drag. This one did not reach his lungs. It swirled in his mouth tasting of death. It did not taste like-  _ laughter, mint tinted smoke passed from mouth to mouth, Stevie no, you have asthma, ya punk, bitter seeped tongue so sweet against his teeth  _ \- Another drag. He held onto the burn in his lungs.

 

“What did they do to him, Tony?”

 

A head shake beside him. A hand on his shoulder squeezing once. Silence.

 

_ Inhale. Who the hell is Bu- Who the hell is- Who the hell- dusty graveyard soil packed over an empty grave, hands molding against thin ribs on lumpy mattresses, chapped lips dragging down serum infused abs against the cover of the forest at dusk, lower, lower- Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee. Blessed are thou among women and blessed is the fruit of thy womb Jesus. Holy Mary Mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death Amen.  _

 

_ If you go any lower, you’d see the Devil, boy- Got my mouth wrapped around heaven, Stevie, hush now, Stevie, I got ya, pal- Hail Mary full of grace- Don’t worry, I’m here, punk- Amen, amen amen. _

 

“I’m sorry about your friend, Cap. We’ll do our best to figure this out.”

 

Smoke curls out in front of him, gently drifting out the window sill. It’s not an offering this time. It’s a goddamn plea.

 

“More than, Tony.” He turns away from the windows, stubs the cigarette, drops it in his pocket and walks away before Tony’s brain catches up. He hears the gasp of realisation when he is twenty feet away. He does not turn. He is thankful that Tony does not follow.

 

***

 

This time, it is Steve that falls. He looks up and decides this is okay. His god is above him- looking terrified, yes- but above him. Breathing. He will not die along with him. He is human, now, his god- no, not human, suspended in between. It was good enough for his selfish heart. The smoke from the destruction did not taste like cigarettes as it filled his lungs, but it burned the same and Steve did not feel the water envelop him.

 

He thinks the afterworld is accessed by the sudden jerk and drag, drag, drag out of the depths. He is not conscious to see the other side.

 

***

 

He wakes up to insistent beeping. Hospital, then. He is in pain but his heart hurts different and his lungs do not work for reasons that are not of biology. There is a lack of voices and the air is crisp. 21st century, then. When he opens his eyes, the seat beside him will not be occupied by who he wants it to be. So Steve does not open his eyes.

 

“On your left.” His voice barely scratches out, bone tired.

The hands that touch his forehead gently are too small and smooth and cool.

 

“Steve.” Pepper, then. 

 

He opens his eyes. “Hi.”

 

Her smile is somewhat sad. “Hello. I forced Sam to go take a shower and get some real food. You’ve been out for three days.”

 

He tries to nod. He does not think he manages to.

 

“What about… what about…”  _ You are my mission. You are my- Is your hair still silky like the dresses the rich dames wore before the war, Soldier? Your eyes are troubled, filled with misery, yet they are the same shade as the sky on your seventeenth birthday when Dottie with the blonde hair, Dottie from down the street, Dottie, who all of the world chased, said she would kiss you for your present. You let her kiss your cheek and you came home with her lipstick still on your skin- said my lips were for my secret gal back home, Stevie, shoulda seen the look on her face, she’s pretty ain’t she? Got nothing on you though, sweetheart, don’t worry about it. ‘M all yours, pal- twinkling eyes, lips pressing against lips, always behind closed doors.  _

 

Pepper’s smile does not change but she looks sadder, Steve thinks. It’s the eyes, he decides.

 

“Natasha and Tony each dropped off a packet of cigarettes. I wouldn’t usually condone it when you’ve just almost died, but I guess one would be okay.” She holds out a cigarette and a lighter. His palm itches where he hasn’t tapped the packet (twice like  _ he _ used.. used.. does?) but he accepts it and fits it between his lips, lights it with practiced ease now.

 

“I guess,” he begins, breathing out the burn, his gaze fixed on the window on the other side of his bed as if enough staring and wishful thinking could work. “Tony told you about it.”

 

“This is not a place where you will be judged, Steve. If you are worried about it.”

 

“No… no…” he mutters. He guesses he was worried about it. He guesses he had, at some point, come to accept his new family. “Thank you.”

 

“I guess you will go after him.”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Sam will go with you.”

 

He turns to look at her, assessing. “He doesn’t have to,” he says at last, tentatively.

 

“No,” her smile is less sad now. “But he will.”

 

Steve does not reply. He finishes his cigarette and sleep calls him back into her arms. 

 

***

 

It is cold and Steve does not have a jacket. He has been colder, he thinks and it is a little funny. He taps the cigarette pack against his palm (twice, like  _ he _ does) and stares out into the city. He almost thinks he can see where the earth curves from the Tower’s roof. It is too cloudy to enjoy the sunset today. He does not mind. He fixes the cigarette to his mouth absentmindedly. 

 

“Man, just cause you’re a supersoldier, doesn’t mean you won’t get a cold.” Disgruntled, vaguely grumpy voice. Steve smiles slightly but does not turn.

 

Sam ends up beside him, his arm pressing against Steve’s even as he clicks the lighter uselessly, the flame going out just as fast as it lights, his eyes still fixed on the horizon.

 

“Aw damn, you’re still burning like a furnace. Serves you right if you catch a cold.” The tone has not changed even as Sam burrows himself against Steve, trying to leach his warmth. It is only the end of fall, it is getting colder, he thinks. Then he thinks of the warmth that permeates his apartment a few floors below. He smiles wider. 

 

“He’s doing better, Steve.”  _ Better. Days when cold feet firmly plant against the backs of his thighs under three duvets and Steve complains because that is how it works. Better. Nights spent in languid rediscovery of vast expanses of skin lit by the glow of the fireplace. Better. Days when a mussed head is the only thing sticking out of a human shaped blanket burrito, the TV rumbling in the background and sci-fi novels littered around the apartment look well read, tumbling with knitting needles and yarn that wage war against Steve’s feet. Steve complains because this is how it works. Babydoll- Brooklyn drawl, lazy and insistent- pancakes. C’mon, darling, make me some pancakes. Solnyshka- Russian rasp, drawing gasps from Steve, loving, loving- god, the things you do to me. Better. There are targets in Stark’s training room with perfect executions and there are small models in Stark’s lab created with the same focus and dedication. So much better. _

 

He nods. The cigarette still dangles uselessly from his lips. He does not light it this time. They do not know when exactly the sun sleeps. Steve fancies it does not matter anymore.

 

***

 

Steve wakes up to an empty bed and still warm sheets. He groans softly and swings his feet out onto the floor, steps onto a dirty tissue, blushes and groans again. 

 

“Bucky.” His voice is sleep soft and he pretends he does not whine out the name.

“M’ere, doll,” an equally soft reply floats from the living room and Steve drags his feet towards the sound, disregarding his own nakedness. 

 

In the living room is the wall to ceiling windows and Bucky stands there, a cigarette held delicately between his fingers, his silhouette outlined in the gentle glow of the moon. Steve’s fingers twitch wanting to capture it on paper. They have got all the time in the world now, though, so he drags himself some more till he can plaster himself against Bucky’s back. He makes a disgruntled noise at the fact that Bucky has thrown on some pajama pants. His fingers curl around the elastic and pull it back petulantly only it let it snap back. He can feel the rumble of the laughter all the way from where it starts in the depths of his lover’s belly and up his back, falling out quietly into the night. He can feel which breaths carry the nicotine, the air filling the lungs more thoroughly, pressing against Steve’s chest. He buries his face into Bucky’s neck, nipping, licking, kissing all lazy and sleepy. Moving upwards when Bucky moves his neck to make more space. He latches onto the skin connecting to his jaw, hums, tastes the hushed moan that rips its way out, tastes the gulp of air that carries more nicotine down. He lifts his head and captures the cherry red lips, sucks the smoke out of his lungs, into his own. This is hot, he thinks.

 

“Tastes different,” he whispers against kiss swollen lips.

 

“Marlboro Reds.” There is a rasp in the voice that holds promises that makes Steve shiver, grind his hips almost unconsciously against the body pressing against him. Bucky moves, fits his ass perfectly against Steve rapidly hardening cock, grinds down dirty as his grin.

 

“I’m sure Lucky Strikes took the betrayal well,” he breathes, noses bumping, hips still moving with purpose.

 

There was the laugh again, a little breathless now that Steve’s hands have snuck around to play with Bucky’s nipple, scratch against his abdomen, press against his hips, leave fingerprints on his waist. 

 

“Don’t make ‘em anymore, doll,” he breathes in another drag before letting his arms fall behind him, around Steve’s neck, his back arching, hips pushing back more insistently. “ _ God _ , who taught you those moves, sweetheart?”

 

“This scrappy kid,” Steve softly gasps, hands digging harder into Bucky’s hips. They moved as if they were dancing, slow and dirty. They did not need music. Not now, anyway. “Said he’d follow me anywhere and then swallo-  _ oh christ, Buck-  _ swallowed my cock.”

 

He’s shaking with silent laughter again but breaks off into a long moan when Steve palms him over his pants. “‘Till the end of the line?”

 

Steve hums in affirmative, his mouth busy sucking marks into the pale neck again. 

“C’mon Rogers, bet you could just slip in-” a moan reverberates against his skin and Bucky gasps, hips stuttering, even as he brings the cigarette back to his lips. He shaking with anticipation now. “Bet I’m all wet and loose from before still. C’mon doll, put it in me.”

 

Steve’s hand curl at the hem of pants and he pushes off the back he’s been plastered against, pushing him forwards enough that one metal and one flesh arm smack against the reinforced glass with a grace he would’ve envied at another time, but he only pulls down the pants now- not enough, not nearly- Bucky’s cock is still trapped inside the fabric, stretched tight as it is pulled just below his ass- and he’s slipping into the wet heat, groaning, forehead pressed against the already sweaty shoulder blades in front of him. “Fuck, babydoll, you feel so good.” Steve only moans in response.

 

“Move, ya big lug.” The hand that reaches towards cherry red lips to fit in the cigarette is shaking, the breath that draws in the smoke is shaking and Steve’s pulling back and snapping his hips forward even before the smoke has reached its destination and Bucky’s gasping it out, seeping it with moans punching out in sync with the thrusts. He only pushes back, meeting with equal force, almost losing hold when Steve’s hand tilts his hips and aims for his prostate with practiced ease. His cigarette isn’t in his hands anymore and he looks over his shoulder, trying to glare as Steve brings it to his lips and inhales. The grin that is returned is edged with mischief and Bucky gasps as the hand holding up his hips slips inside the fabric to wrap around his dick. Then, he is holding the cigarette out, stubbing it out against the window, letting it drop- “Don’t worry Buck, I got you.”- and he’s pulling Bucky up against him again, the hand not jerking him slowly, moving down his hip, his thigh to suddenly pull his leg up and close to his chest, holding him open to the world.  _ Jesus save him.  _

 

Steve can see Bucky’s eyes wide and focused on the faint reflection on the window. The pants will not survive, he thinks vaguely. “That’s my line, ya punk.” he hears, breathy, scratchy- arms coming back around to clutch around his neck, and his body stretches and twist and  _ God, he’s so beautiful, so perfect _ \- His thrusts are deliberate now. He knows all the spots, knows Bucky’s body more completely than his own for his own pleasure always came second, and Bucky’s moaning, incoherent, eyes screwed shut tight now, head hanging back against Steve’s shoulder.  _ He’s so goddamn lucky,  _ he thinks, his hand speeding up, watching his movements muffled by the fabric and the blurriness of the dark glass but Bucky is so tense, standing on his toes as his body flows with Steve’s thrusts, up, up, straining. He would beg if he could, Steve thinks. But that is not how it works. 

 

“Show the world how beautiful you are, Buck,” he murmurs. He can feel the orgasm coiling in the body he holds, can feel the muscles desperately clenching against his cock- He bites the earlobe tracing his jaw and Bucky falls apart, coming with a hoarse shout, eyes rolling back, face burying into Steve’s neck. He’s shaking even as Steve thrusts in once more, twice more, following Bucky with a grunt, circling his hips, riding out the high. It’s quiet now except for their harsh breaths and they stay that way for a few minutes- Bucky’s head lolling, Steve’s eyes fixed on the window as if trying to catalog everything so he could draw it out later. He lets Bucky ease down eventually and chuckles softly at the grumbles. 

 

Before he can open his mouth, there’s a cigarette being placed between his lips and he obediently clamps down on it. Bucky’s metal hand is still curled back against his neck, metal fingers digging into his hair, his right hand brings up a light to the stick and Steve inhales. The lighter disappears and then, Bucky’s stealing the cigarette and stepping out of the ruined pants to turn around. He blows the smoke out up towards his face and Steve just breathes it back in, leaning down to press his lips against Bucky’s softly. 

 

“I love you.”   
  


“Sap.”

 

“Learnt that from the scrappy kid too.”

 

_ Inhale. _ __  
  


_ Exhale. _

 

“I love you, too.” 

 

This is not an offering anymore, Steve thinks. This is an answered prayer. He smiles against the lips pressed against his, smoky, shifty, time did not matter, not really.  __

**Author's Note:**

> Please ease my suffering with kudos and comments, thank you.
> 
> I'm on [tumblr](https://turquoise-tales.tumblr.com/) . Come scream at me about anything you want but I respond to Stucky best. If you liked this fic, maybe you can check out my other fics? kay, see ya around.


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